


More Than This

by arcadian_dream



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-28
Updated: 2010-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-14 04:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadian_dream/pseuds/arcadian_dream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Albus thinks: he misses his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than This

_Never let the one that you love know that you do_ – 'Cardinal Song', **The National**

 

Albus thinks: he misses his brother.

 

He misses the weight of James' body as he shoves him in the hall (the way older brothers are wont to do). He misses the mischievous flash of a smile as James recounts some tomfoolery he and Hugo Weasley exacted against Scorpius Malfoy. He misses the too-rough, curiously intense bouts of backyard Quidditch, and the way that James fumes on those rare occasions when Al prevails. He misses punches in the arm and ruffled hair and dirty socks stuffed behind the sofa and “Sod off, would you Al? I'm busy.”

 

Albus misses all of these things about his brother, and he has missed them since James departed the family home. Having completed his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, James was approached by a number of Quidditch clubs. He was, unsurprisingly, possessed of a natural propensity for the game. He was, however, also possessed of the long and lithe Weasley genes: all spindly arms and legs, James was a rake of a young man and, before the Wimbourne Wasps were even to consider playing him, he was compelled to undertake a rigorous preparatory programme at the club in an endeavour to add some bulk to the haphazard bag of bones that seemed to be his body.

 

But it is not these things – the rough-housing and Quidditch and pain in the arse big brotherness of their relationship that Albus longs for with an ache in his gut.

 

It is more; more.

 

It is lips – plush, and pink. Soft flesh stained the colours of flushed cheeks after coming in from the cold; pinched skin; or the last, fading bloom of spring.

 

It is hands – the skin, dry and cracked, brushing against Albus' backside; against his belly and thighs  
and cupping the crannies of Al's body, the angles and lines, muscle and bone that, when held in the palm of James' hands, when pinched and pulled and twisted between his fingers, beneath his brother's touch.

 

It is the spark that James ignited in Al those years ago, as they stumbled tentatively into adolescence; hand in hand in the dark and amid the fog of panting breaths and grasping fingers.

 

It is the things Al has been searching for since James left: the myriad kisses in the dark corners of Hogwarts castle; of unfamiliar hands and

 

It is more, more, more.

 

Albus recounts these things, and the images dance behind his eyes as he lies in bed; and he thinks: he will be glad to see his brother in the morning.

 

*

Albus doesn't know when it happens, but somehow, somehow, he manages to fall asleep: for when he next opens his eyes it is to the golden light of mid-morning that filters through the curtains, and not the flicker of his brother's gaze, or the dry, bleeding skin of James' bottom lip, that he gnaws incessantly when he is anxious.

 

Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Al pushes back the covers. Lifting a hand to his mouth, Albus brushes errant saliva from his chin; strands that escaped his lips as he slept, and now dried by the cool, dawn air. He yawns, loudly; and as he does, he catches the rising notes of a deep, always-slightly-hoarse voice and Albus knows: James is home.

 

Without dressing, Albus exits his bedroom. Clad only in his pyjama bottoms, he bounds down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

 

“Al!” James calls cheerfully as Albus descends the landing. Bare-chested and beaming, it is mere moments before Al is wrapped in James lightly-freckled arms, and the warmth of his brotherly embrace.

 

*

 

The day is passed in excited chatter; idle banter. There is talk of the training regimes James is undertaking, and the latest professional grade brooms and when, exactly, does James think he'll make his debut for the Wasps? There are visits from the Weasleys and too much food and drink, and far, far too many people for Albus' liking.

 

All he wants – and all he has wanted since James left - is to be alone with his brother; to feel the embrace that they shared that morning.

 

*

 

It is long after the house has emptied and day has given way to dusk, which has given was to the luxuriant darkness of night when Albus ventures from his room. Padding quietly down the hall, he eases James' bedroom door open.

 

“James?” he asks tentatively.

 

James is seated at his desk, poring over the Daily Prophet's sports section.

 

“Al,” he says and, putting the paper to one side, he gets to his feet and ushers Albus into the room. “I thought you'd gone to bed.”

 

Al nods; he grins at his brother.

 

“What is it?” James asks.

 

“Just -” Albus begins; blushing, he looks away. Fidgeting, he takes a deep breath and inches closer to where James is standing. “It's just – I missed you.”

 

An incredulous chuckle escapes James lips. “I missed you too, mate,” he says.

 

Albus shakes his head. _“No,”_ he adds, “You don't – I don't think you understand.”

 

“Al, what are you on about. I -”

 

“I _missed_ you,” Al clarifies. His voice is firm, sure and, as he speaks he pressed a palm to James' abdomen. Slowly, he runs his hand over James' sternum; his fingers glance the rise of his clavicle before he firmly clasps the back of James' neck. He motions to pull him into a kiss, but James resists.

 

“Al, I can't,” he says hastily, pushing Albus' away.

 

“What are you – James? I don't -”

 

Taken aback, Albus tries again; this time, he is quicker; advancing on James he harries him back against the desk.

 

 _“Al,”_ James hisses, ducking under Albus' arms and out of his reach. “Don't. We can't. Not anymore. It's not -”

 

Al shakes his head worriedly. “No,” he stammers, “Why can't we – I mean, I don't – James, what's _changed_? You can't just -”

 

“We can't, Al. Not any more. I can't.” James reaches out; he places a consoling hand on Al's shoulder, and Al steps back, shirking from his brother's touch.

 

“But – I missed you, James. I mean, you don't even know how – the things I do to make it like you're still here when you're not and now – and _now_ -”

 

“Al, please. Just try to understand. It's not that I don't want to -”

 

“Then why? Why? I – Merlin's sake, James, I love you. I love you so fucking much that it hurts and I don't know how to make it stop and even if I did I don't know that I'd even fucking _want_ to and now you're here and things can be like they were and you just, you just -”

 

“Jesus, Al, things can't ever be like they were,” James spits. He throws his hands down, exasperated.

 

Albus opens his mouth to retort but instead, he swallows; as though his lips and tongue and teeth can quash the hurt and humiliation that is tearing at his insides.

 

He takes a deep breath and steps away from his brother. If he stays, he thinks he might just shatter into pieces all over James' floor.

 

“No,” Albus says quietly, finally, “They can't ever be like they were before.”

 

And as he leaves James' room, clutching his elbows to hold himself together he realises: he doesn't miss his brother; it is more than this; it is more.

 

Albus thinks: he misses his lover.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for HP Cestfest 2010.


End file.
